_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came
over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend or
acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the
sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom
when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could
live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual
observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all
naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his
cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and
the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object,
face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some
frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.
(Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit
by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and
evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with
profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while
he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd
his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to
gaze easier--one long, clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd
back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken
boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.
_W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y._--His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at
the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before
brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help
as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced,
rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a
great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W.,
of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The
doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his
side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk
much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady
above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of tobacco.)
J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I
gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man
adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I
offer'd it--refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was
very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was
evidently very grateful, but said little.
J.T.L., of company F, 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is
very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has
gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three
toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New
England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated
singed cat, who was better than she look'd.
Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something
pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of
horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses
are excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs.
Wright--a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital,
Alexandria--she is a perfect nurse.)
In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine--sick with
dysentery and typhoid fever--pretty critical case--I talk with him
often--he thinks he will die--looks like it indeed. I write a letter for
him home to East Livermore, Maine--I let him talk to me a little,
but not much, advise him to keep very quiet--do most of the talking
myself--stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand--talk
to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner--talk about his
furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel.
Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the
foot--poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed
with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes--I give him
a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted
in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little
breakfast. I write two letters for him.
Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore,
2d U. S. artillery--shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite
rational--from hips down paralyzed--he will surely die. I speak a very
few words to him every day and evening--he answers pleasantly--wants
nothing--(he told me soon after he came about his home affairs,
his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his
condition.) He died soon after she came.